The cartoon- Geza and the generalGeza graphic
The General Who Trapped His Own Children
In the long, blood-stained history of humanity, no horror had ever been written quite like this. Kings had slaughtered their rivals, dictators had starved nations, and conquerors had burned entire civilizations to the ground. But never before had a father—flesh of his flesh, blood of his blood—stood guard at the door, rifle in hand, to keep his own children from their mother.
He was the first.
A soldier draped in the colors of the nation, his face hardened by years of war, now played warden to three frightened souls. His own children, barely clothed, their ribs visible through the fabric of their torn garments, stood before him with eyes that had already seen too much.
“Please,” the eldest whispered, voice shaking. “Take us to Mama. We haven’t seen her in six years.”
Six years.
He had been there the night they took her. He had watched as the authorities dragged his wife away, her screams muffled by the lies they told him. She is a danger to the nation, they said. She is a threat to progress. And like a good soldier, he had obeyed. He told himself it was for the best.
But the children? He had promised them she would return. That it was temporary. That one day, they would be a family again.
Now, six years later, they stood before him, dirty, hungry, desperate. And he—he was their captor.
In the distance, at a grand podium, his spokesman stood before a sea of microphones. Bathless Geza, they called him behind closed doors—because no matter how much filth he spewed, he never washed off the stench of deceit.
Geza adjusted his tie, his voice dripping with well-rehearsed authority. “Chiwenga will take the nation to Canaan,” he declared. The audience erupted into applause, their minds numbed by the endless promises of a paradise that would never come.
Canaan. The land of hope. The land of deliverance.
The soldier clenched his jaw. Canaan was a lie.
His fingers trembled against the trigger of his rifle. Was this what he had become? The gatekeeper of suffering? The executioner of his own children’s dreams?
The eldest child stepped forward, his small hands clenched into fists. “Are you going to shoot us, Baba?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.
The words struck harder than any bullet.
The soldier looked at his children, then back at the stage where Bathless Geza continued his sermon of deception. The cameras were rolling. The world was watching.
His hands loosened.
Slowly, painfully, he lowered the rifle.
“Go,” he whispered, voice breaking. “Find your mother.”
The children hesitated for only a moment before they ran, disappearing into the shadows.
From the podium, Bathless Geza faltered for the briefest second, his reptilian gaze locking onto the soldier. He had seen. They all had seen.
The soldier turned, heart pounding. He knew what was coming next. His choice was treason.
The doors behind him burst open. Heavy boots thundered in.
With a deep breath, he raised his rifle one last time. Not in service to the state. Not in obedience.
But in defiance.
